


Shahrazād

by rokklagio



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokklagio/pseuds/rokklagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their relationship, as far as Ahmad knew, had always been a constant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shahrazād

**Author's Note:**

> Ahmad's quite manipulative in this one.

****  


Their relationship, as far as Ahmad knew, had always been a constant.

****  


It was when he was a few steps from turning thirty years of age, and it also was when Cambulac was hot with the scorching summer of 1258, the warmest they had in years and he was just two and twenty.

He would leave his chambers to go for strolls around the Royal quarters, walking past the gates to venture inside Cambulac. The sun would be the most welcoming during the morning, and he enjoyed it as much as a lizard would.

That summer, however, forced him to stay in his chambers. More than ten years had passed and he still remembered those burning days with great lucidity. He took frequent baths and wore the softest cotton, and yet the muggy weather couldn’t let him concentrate on his studies.

Chabi had been relentless in the decision of letting Ahmad study: and knowing that she was, that implied that the Khan was too. Ahmad complied with the Empress’ requests, firstly because he knew that his strongest point for survival lied in his wits. He loved reading historical papers on wars and past rulers lives, and he knew how much a country could change with different rules, and so did the court.   
Knowing that he was considered a guest in what he called home, he tried to make himself essential for the Khan.

The night was calmly falling over Cambulac: the sky’s colours were strongest and the air getting gradually cooler. Considering whether to keep on reading or enjoy the last hours of the day, he gathered his papers and neatly put them away. He tied his hair up with in a ribbon and ventured outside.

He thought to ride outside of Cambulac, for he had still time before curfew, but then he decided to turn for the training ground. He could hear distant screams fill the air: most probably he wouldn’t be alone there.

As he walked closer he could see already the imposing figure of Byamba - younger than him by two years and taller than him by a foot - wrestling a smaller silhouette onto the ground.

He stepped further, but he easily sensed what was happening.

Jingim kept very little of the elegant posture he was supposed to manifest in public. His hair, if once neatly tied, now it was falling like a troubled shadow down his shoulders. His clothes were distinctly white but an ugly shade of dirt covered the sleeves up to the elbow.

Ahmad could see the annoyed look in Byamba’s eyes: he knew he was a better wrestler than the Prince by a long mile, but he didn’t dare say it in front of his step-brother, or to the Khan’s ear reach anyway. They didn’t get along, he and Byamba, but Ahmad guessed quite easily what upset the youth, as he wasn’t too good in concealing it.

Jingim wiggled out of Byamba’s grasp and began to throw himself once again against the bigger boy. Byamba accepted every strike as a patient horse would accept his owner on its back, but Ahmad suspected his patience to be misplaced: as he allowed Jingim to get the upper hand in combat, the Prince’s frustration only grew faster.

Ever since he was a young boy, the Khan’s approval was the single aim of the prince. He didn’t realise it right away - not when Byamba wasn’t still so evident in the frame.

He couldn’t hear much of what they were saying - he didn’t need to. Jingim was barely six and ten but was relentless in beating a guy who was already double his size. And Byamba, that poor soul, couldn’t do much to oppose himself to the idea. He wasn’t imposing by nature and found easier to accept the Prince’s whims than fighting them.

Ahmad left them and walked a bit longer around the Palace. When the sun was ready to set down, he walked back to his chambers.

After ten years, he still remembered the quiet air of that night and the light dinner he had before setting for bed. Nothing changed, except for the fact that he no longer resided in the Khan’s household, but had a palace of his own. And even though he gained Kublai’s trust, he still had to work hard to maintain it. He remembered his chambers being smaller, but no less worthy of a royal subject. Both tapestry and drapes were still strictly mongolian - only when he moved out of the Royal Palace he could choose mobilia of his taste, something that remind him of a place that was his home for a too short period of time.

He still remembered every detail.

****  


He was reading the life of Hoelun when he heard heavy steps resonate against the wooden hallway, growing louder as they approached the apartments.

He took away his papers to see Jingim storming inside the room. Although he angrily kept his head low, Ahmad could see his face flush with what resembled a great anger and a greater deal of shame.

“I cannot stand him any longer. I have been training for days, I-”

As the prince talked, Ahmad moved from his desk to sit on his bed and patiently waited for him to calm down. He kept muttering words such as “loathe” and “Byamba” and “Father”, but as soon as he raised his head and found Ahmad watching him on the bed, he stepped closer.

He crawled onto the bed, sure to be concealed from judging eyes, namely the Khan’s. Ahmad accepted the boy in his arms and, without fully realizing, he delved his fingers into Jingim’s black hair, as if to comb it back in its place.

“I have been training for days, brother. I- I… whenever I was free from fondumental tasks such as sleep, I would train.”

“So that is the reason of your disappearance from your tutors’ lessons?” he caressed the hair, noticing how long it got since the past winter. It was an undeniable fact that Jingim was growing into a fine young man, and everybody started to be aware of it: the Empress, all the ladies of the Hall of Fragrance, the Khan’s concubines and Ahmad.

The only one who wasn’t aware was the boy himself - his mind too worried about Kublai’s judgement already.

“Why do you keep on trying to beat Byamba in what he masters best and not trick him in your fields?” he inquired, sensing Jingim’s shoulders stiffen. “You are a better archer than he is. And the best rider your father’s empire had seen in ages. You are too focused on your chinese weaknesses, thus making it impossible for you to peer into your true mongolian virtues, brother.”

Jingim looked at him over his shoulder.

“Does it matter what I do best?”

No. Ahmad thought. It matters what Kublai thinks you should do best. But he did not dare say it.

 

*

 

Days passed. What was once a scorching summer quietly delved into a cool autumn, preparing to be the chilling prelude to a harsh winter.

“You think yourself ready to take on such a responsibility, Ahmad?”

Empress Chabi squinted her eyes towards the setting sun, waiting for Ahmad to answer to her question.

Which truly wasn’t a question at all. Coming from her lips, it had been working inside her mind for far too long, and what could have been a simple request it now surely turned into a demand.

“I am, Empress.”

Were there other answers? To be entrusted with state finances at the age of three and twenty truly wasn’t a light-hearted decision, and yet the Khan decided that he trusted him enough to offer him the job. No other choice could be taken into consideration: firstly because he had no desire to reject it, and also because of Chabi.

The face of the Empress, however, lighted up at Ahmad’s answer, which was a reaction he did not take in account. He knew he had no choice in the matter, so why such delight?

“I am glad to hear this,” she answered honestly, before taking a sip of her suutei tsai.

For an instant, he felt the odd sensation of having escaped death. He watched as the Empress place down the small cup on the silver tray, then she spoke.

“I worry for Jingim,” she sighed, abandoning the formality she held just a minute before. When it was just Chabi and Ahmad, politeness no longer was an issue.

“Why is that?” he asked, drinking from his cup and pretending he was not aware of what troubled Jingim’s mind.

“He is hearing what some men whisper at court when the Khan is not there. It’s poisoning his heart. It seems many share Kaidu’s opinion.”

“Many that deem Byamba as a more appropriate successor for the Khan?”

She gravely nodded.

“This must be in jest! Truly he knows he has not need to compare himself to Byamba. He is no bastard son.”

“I’m aware of that, just as much as you.”

She stood up and immediately got surrounded by her handmaids. Ahmad followed her back to the Palace, before she turned to him and said:

“Would you talk to him?”

 

Were there other answers?

“I will, Empress.”

 

*

 

He did not have to wait longer to fulfill the Empress’ request. The following day, right before dinner, Jingim waited for him to return from his afternoon walk.

He was alone: no guards in sight, no tutors to remind him of his work.

“My prince?” he inquired politely, but Jingim only stepped silently aside, letting Ahmad in.

He quickly dismissed his manservants and gestured for Jingim to sit by the tea table.

“Would you like some chay?” he asked as he sat down beside him. He could see Jingim’s cheeks being an odd shade of red, and understood that the prince must have drunk a great deal of airag that evening.

“You know I cannot stand your spiced tea, Ahmad,” he vehemently shook his head, before standing up once again just to fall onto Ahmad’s bed.

The older man sighed and followed him there. Something must have happened, something that Jingim did not wish to talk about. It wasn’t just the usual inadequacy the Prince felt when he was around Byamba: he simply dismissed it by now, Ahmad knew that.

The boy lied on the bed as if dead, but a closer look would make it clear that he had his eyes open towards the ceiling and was thinking about something.

“Is everything alright?”

Interrupting his thoughts would have been a bad idea, Ahmad reasoned, but he asked anyway.

The boy stayed silent.

After a while, Ahmad decided to resume his reading, and as he moved off the bed, he heard Jingim’s voice mutter a few words.

“How do you find me, Ahmad?”

He stepped on his tracks. This was the moment to decide his words carefully - he turned and sat back on the bed.

“What do you mean, my prince?” he asked, slightly puzzled by the question, but with a soft smile adorning his lips.

Said prince, on the other hand, just rolled his eyes and groaned loudly.

“Please, don’t call me that. Not here, at least. What do you see when you look at me?”

Ahmad genuinely smiled at that.

“I see the qualms a Chinese emperor, and yet the manners of a Mongolian conquerer. Your head was made for more than simple golden headresses: you have been blessed with the features of Chabi, but the complexion of Sorghaghtani. You are fit to sit both on the throne and your horse: that is one important quality for a ruler. A Khan who cannot lead his people in battle cannot equally bear the discomfort of sitting behind his walls.”

Jingim closed his eyes, absent-mindedly nodding to each word.

“Yes, that is something Mother would say.”

“What would you desire me to say instead?”

Jingim looked pensively at his feet, moving silently his lips as if to mutter mute words. He did not know what to ask of him: that was quite limpid to Ahmad. He surely had his way with words - he had to learn how to. Jingim’s request, however, seemed to spurt from different soil than simple vanity’s.

“I must confess,” the young Prince started, gently swinging his head on one side and letting his hair flow over his red robe quite carelessly, “I do not know for sure what bothers me. I believe it to be a lack of satisfaction.”

Much to Ahmad’s surprise, the boy was being incredibly honest, and he could not simply pass it as trivial, so he paid attention to every word.

“I know it is because of Byamba and yet I know it is not truly. My father… he always acts somewhat cold around my presence, but he had always been like this.”

The alcohol made him stumble on his words, but he was being completely coherent, and Ahmad had time to formulate an answer to the boy’s anguish.

He raised an hand to Jingim’s flushed face, but his fingers deftly caressed the shiny, long black hair and let some curl around them.

He adverted Jingim’s eyes narrow on his face, but he gained enough confidence to do as he pleased until he was asked to stop.

It was not happening, though: he touched the boy’s chin with his index finger and dared to brush it against Jingim’s bottom lip.

The boy was looking at him, but Ahmad  focused on his own fingers.

“Do you want me to teach you something?”

He was more daring than ever: if the boy thought his touch to be annoying, he would have immediately said so. The boy was not stupid at all, and his impetuous nature showed great survival skills. He nodded instead, mesmerized by Ahmad’s bold touch.

He caught the boy’s jaw and stared at the parted lips. They were pink, chapped and boyishly charming. He wanted to kiss the boy - if only for the satisfaction of conquering something that belongs to his dearest Father - but that was not what this game was about. He let his hand wander aimlessly along Jingim’s body - soft, unlike the scrawny boy himself was at the same age, - but stopped on his abdomen when he noticed that the boy was leaning forward.

He shot him a puzzled look, getting the impression that he was not feeling well, but the boy shifted closer and kissed him on the lips.

He did not expect Jingim to come forward, but the boy watched him with innocent lust in his eyes and a silent request on his parted mouth.

The boy assaulted once again his lips, this time more forceful and desperately than moments before, fixing his hands on Ahmad’s thighs to support himself, while he sank into the kiss.

The older man kept his hand strong on Jingim’s jaw, so that he could not lean any further and could control his kisses. They were sloppy, mostly because of Jingim’s lack of balance than his inexperience, but they were quick and delighftul.

Then he leant back to break the kiss, and to Jingim’s needy moan he responded with feverish kisses on his chin, his jaw, all down his neck.

Jingim’s external behaviour suggested that he was prudish, reserved. He escaped his mother’s loving touch as if it was a terrible disease and snapped at every tutor’s patronising gesture.

But right there, Jingim was desperate for affection. He put his arms around Ahmad’s head and let the man kiss him everywhere, almost straddling his lap as a devoted pet would.

He caught the boy’s hips and flipped over their positions. Jingim’s hair covered his cushions, and his red robe was messily spread on the bed like a poddle of blood.

The image got Ahmad oddly excited: he kept kissing the boy as a his hands traveled along the hem of his clothes.

He looked in the boy’s eyes, searching for any sign of rejection, but finding none. What he found, instead, was a odd sort of commitment. He was resolute, no changing of ideas: he kept stroking Ahmad’s hair to let him know that he could have his way on him, that all he needed was attention and caring and affection, and he was the only one able to give it to him.

He was the Crown Prince, but young still: along with the reckleness he could sense the candor that comes with the age. He could have had tons of mistresses already and still ingenuity and purity would not leave his face.

And Ahmad really needed the Khanate to trust him.

 

“Do you ever touch yourself?” he softly asked, positioning himself between Jingim’s legs. The boy hotly blushed, his beautiful face a whole frown: but then he quietly nodded.

“Sometimes. Though it brings me no satisfaction, only shame.”

Ahmad wanted to smile to the confession, but the prince would have taken it as a show of disrespect, instead of simple compassion. So he nodded, and put a hand on the boy’s groin, and started stroking him through his garments. It took him very little to notice that the prince was already hard, and the mewls that came out of his lips did not help Ahmad’s own erection either.

He grabbed the hem of his tights and removed them in a slow but swift motion, leaving the boy with his nude legs circled around his back.

He was now watching Ahmad with soft lust in his heavy lidded eyes, and his foot costantly petting the older man’s side did not make him concentrate enough on the boy, and that was what all of this was about.

He took him in his hand, not knowing if the prince liked Ahmad’s pace, but tried nevetheless. And he found out that the prince did like it: he closed his eyes and melt in a long, eloquent sob.

“Ahmad-,” he tried to show coherence in his speech, but Ahmad lowered his head and planted a kiss on his bottom lip, stroking him at the rythm of his breaths.

Jingim’s thighs were strong: they kept the Persian steady over the Prince, not giving him any chance to lean back and escape. And when the boy’s legs got higher, hugging Ahmad’s ribcage, his hands got lower, touching Ahmad’s own garments and pleading him to get rid of them.

He tried to distract the boy with faster strokes, but he stood firm on his intentions.

“Remove them,” he ordered, with a tone of voice that resembled his father’s.

He wanted to object, arguing that this was not about himself, but Jingim’s fiery glare left him with no alternative than obey. So he did.

The prince was thrilled with Ahmad’s body now exposed to his touch, and so he touched. He let his hands travel over the dark skin, with no purpose. He was admiring, and Ahmad let the boy admire.

This was not about him. This could not be about him.

But Jingim rose up to kiss him, and this time there was no sloppiness to it - it was slow, and deliberate, but above all passionate. It pushed Ahmad back on his hands, so that the boy could straddle his lap with hot-blooded intent.

He could feel the soft, naked skin on his own: it was making him going mad over the boy.

He relaxed back and exhaled a moan when Jingim started to ride him, making their erections forcefully brush together, and the Prince’s hair was a dark curtain around Ahmad’s face, and the coordinated motion of their hips together looked like the waves of a red ocean.

He knew it, he could feel it: Jingim was asking more of him - something that Ahmad was resolute not to give into.  

  
He abandoned his head on the cushions and swiftly caught Jingim’s ass in both his hands, feeling the soft skin under his fingertips and the muffled sobs just below his neck letting him know that the prince was close to reach his climax.

Sensing the boy to be so vulnerable and yet incredibly dominant in this practice made him feel strange and somehow excited. The fact that Jingim fell in his arms so rapidly and with little effort made him feel incredibly powerful over the Prince.

Over Kublai.

 

He felt his hair getting pulled as Jingim’s breath got frantic, his whole body tensed as the boy let out a strangled moan and latched his whole body onto Ahmad’s, who found his own release when he felt the boy getting weaker right in his arms. There were no words to describe the emotion that filled Ahmad’s head as he came against the soft abdomen of Kublai’s most precious belonging; there were no words to describe the feeling of Jingim’s nails scratching his skin as they both found their release in such a twisted way.

 

The Persian exhaled a lonely sigh. He turned his head on one side, finding Jingim’s exhausted eyes fixed on his face. He sheepishly opened his lips, he was probably going to say something, but in the end decided not to. Ahmad was thankful for his silence.

He got up to find a wet rag to clean them both, and when he returned the boy had fallen asleep: the lack of any kind of worry left his beautiful face free from any frown, and that reassured Ahmad, in some way.

He sat down on the bed and covered Jingim with his own clothes, the only ones that were not lying on the floor. He looked at the boy, reasoning that he had to call someone to bring the Prince back to his chambers, before his absence could alarm the whole court.

****  
  


In a minute, he decided at last.

****  



End file.
